


out of season

by verociraptors



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, also lots of italics oops, and jeremy is a complete and utter hopeless romantic, but there are a few different themes running through, consider this a pilot fic of sorts, technically this is a florist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verociraptors/pseuds/verociraptors
Summary: Jeremy sees red, daring, warm, comforting red. In Michael’s jacket. In the daisy. In his own cheeks. In the petals that bloom in his stomach. Red, so tempting that he knows he has to do something.So, he takes a deep breath, feeling brave and red and entirely out of season





	out of season

When _he_ walks in, it’s like the sun pours in after him.

Jeremy swallows a lump in his throat that melts into a seed, and plants itself into the pit of his stomach, finding a home amongst frozen soil and butterflies.

In some way, he’s the prettiest boy Jeremy has ever seen, wrapped in _red_ and just absolutely glowing like a gold sunlit photo as he stands in the threshold of the quaint, ill-lit shop. Jeremy’s heart drums against his chest, hummingbird wings in his ribcage.

(He had felt this once before. Quick pulses and seeds that grew purple spring flowers that he fostered with care.)

The boy looks out of place standing next to paint chipped walls and stacks of old glass pottery; out of season in the same way that Jeremy is when surrounded by summery orchids and roses and violets.

But the boy isn’t blue winter like Jeremy, who embodies overcast skies and layers of morning frost. As he approaches the front counter, a bonfire warmth spreading with each step he takes, Jeremy thinks of autumn, crisp air and crunchy leaves underfoot. The boy tries to drown his earth tones in deep _red_ , _red_ knit, shoulders lifted, head down, hands in his pockets, but it doesn’t hide the way the sunlight follows him like a spotlight, filtering through the windows.

Jeremy forgets himself for a moment. Forgets to shut his laptop. Forgets to straighten his posture. Forgets that he is a worker who is paid to greet and help customers, not fall head over heels for them at a glance.  

The boy shifts in place and glances up. Jeremy blinks and pricks his thumb on a thorn he had been trimming under the counter. They both speak at the same time.

“Hello—“

“Uh, hey—“

Then they both clamp their mouths shut. The boy looks back down and bites his lip. Jeremy looks down at his miniscule injury and feels his ears tinge pink with stupid, _stupid_ embarrassment.

At least the boy has the good grace to make a sound of awkward laughter, while Jeremy struggles to gain what little bearings he had in the first place. He rehearses a line in his head, practiced protocol he uses on little old ladies who wander in on rainy days or browsing teenagers who stop by after school lets out. He snaps his head up abruptly, exhaling.

“What can I help you with—“

“Okay, this is might sound weird—“

Their voices overlap again. This time, Jeremy doesn’t get the chance to feel embarrassed because the boy cracks a helpless half-smile in his direction that causes Jeremy’s mind to go blank. And the seed that settled in the cold pit of his stomach does _something_ (sprouts? takes root?) that sends a rush up his spine.

“We’re kind of in sync, aren’t we?” the boy chuckles softly, finally lowering his shoulders. He takes one hand out of his pocket to gesture to Jeremy. “You go first.”

“I, um,” Jeremy stammers. The boy is even prettier up close, cheeks slightly rosy from the chilly outdoor air, dark mocha eyes bright behind a pair of round, outdated glasses. There’s a radiance about him that not even the muted grey filter of the shop can cast a shadow across.

His mouth feels dryer the longer he stares; the boy is waiting for him to say something. Say something. Say _anything._

“I’m Jeremy!”

His own reaction is instantaneous: covering his face with his hands and muffling a mortified groan. The boy, on the other hand, takes a second to process Jeremy’s colossal social fumble.

“Oh, yeah?” he drawls out, unsure, but recovers from his surprise quickly. “Oh—Well, uh, I’m Michael.”

And for the briefest of moments, Jeremy’s heart completely stops.

Michael.

Time moves in slow motion as Jeremy creates just enough space between his fingers to see an outstretched hand offered to him across the counter.

_Michael._

The boy’s name echoes in his head, and everything in his body starts to move at once

The butterflies make his insides soar, his heart pounds a loud, steady rhythm, and that _damn seed_ shoots up into his throat and blooms _red red red_ with a hiccup of—

“Michael!”

Jeremy flinches at his volume at the same time the boy–Michael–does. Self-conscious, Jeremy moves a hand from his face to flatten his hair, eyes looking anywhere but at Michael.

“I-I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

“No, yeah, I mean…that’s me,” Michael clears his throat, another nervous chuckle following. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy!”

Jeremy looks up just in time to see Michael taking the liberty to reach the rest of the way over the counter and grab his hand in a handshake. Michael’s grip is firm and enthusiastic; his large hand encompasses Jeremy’s thin, bony one. He notes the heat of Michael’s skin, warming his own clammy hand until the tips of his fingers don’t feel numb anymore.

When Jeremy dares to shift his gaze upward, meeting Michael’s eyes, his whole face starts to burn, cheeks filling with a _red_ , _red_ color. He manages to squeeze Michael’s hand back weakly, and Michael grins.

For just a moment, Jeremy doesn’t feel like winter or autumn or even spring. Michael makes him feel like something entirely new. A feeling that is much too fleeting the second their hands part.

Jeremy masks his disappointment by pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles. “Uh, how can I help you, Mi-Michael?”

Michael’s face lights up now that all the awkwardly placed introductions are aside. He’s nearly bouncing in place when he explains what he’s looking for. “Oh, man! When I was passing by, I saw this super rad flower in the window. The Fire Flower! You know, from Mario? I’m not a big flower person, but man, that just seemed like such a rare find! Do you—is it for sale?”

Jeremy is already stumbling out of his stool before Michael can even finish his question, maneuvering around the counter and hiding his face so Michael won’t catch the fond smile on his lips. It’s like Michael just keeps getting better and better.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course! Let me just—just get it for you! Hang on,” he motions for Michael to stay put while he weaves through the aisles to the front of the store. The flower in question isn’t actually one with a price. It’s more of as decorative piece that Jeremy had made a few days prior, a red daisy that he slapped some glue and foam on and then stuck it in a cheap vase before putting it in the very corner of the front window in his own feeble attempt to add some character to the otherwise dull shop.

He has to stand on his tip toes to grab the vase now, careful not to drop it or snap the flower’s stem. He examines it over once as he carries it back to the front, checking to make sure no petals are falling off or wilting. Thankfully, the daisy is in perfect condition, and he happily holds it out to Michael, who is even more thrilled to see the flower up close.

“Woah! This is amazing! Do you guys have any more of these? Or anything else like it?” He doesn’t look up from the flower, but Jeremy is still touched by Michael’s admiration for his amateur handiwork.

Fiddling with his sweater sleeves again, Jeremy shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry, it’s, um, one of a kind… Since I-I only made one. I didn’t think anyone would actually ask about it.”

The statement causes Michael’s head to snap up, his mouth parted in a comical ‘O’ shape. “Dude, _one of a kind?_ And _you_ made this,” Michael exclaims, shaking the vase none too gently. Jeremy almost reaches out to stop him, but catches himself at the last second. Oblivious, Michael continues, “I’m talking to a real flower artist here! How much? I think I have like fifteen bucks in my pockets…somewhere…”

Michael shifts the vase into one arm, shoving his other hand into his pocket to dig around for change. This time, Jeremy helpfully takes the vase for him, his heart jumping when Michael, tongue poked out in concentration, offers him a grateful glance.

“No, uh, don’t worry about it. You can just have it. For—for free, you know?”

Michael’s eyes widen. “Wait, what—“

“I’m serious,” Jeremy walks back to the other side of the counter, touching one of the black eyes that are hot glued on the flower. He’d constructed the simple design with the help of old yellow and black craft foam, and it’s hardly a job well done. “This was really easy to make. I just used some old stuff lying around my garage. It’s fine if you take it. Just make sure you change the water every few days or so.”

“Yeah, but,” Michael runs a hand through his hair, lips pursed, “I can’t just _not_ pay for _art._ ”

Jeremy snorts, partly because of Michael’s exaggerated statement, and partly because talking to Michael is so miraculously easy. He definitively slides the vase across the countertop. “I’m a florist, not an artist. I can make more if I want.”

“You should!” Michael blurts with a suddenness that shocks them both. “I would—I really want to see the other stuff you can make! Like, if you get any more ideas for cool video game bouquets I want to be the first to know.”

Jeremy swallows thickly again, and the sprout in his stomach, his chest, his throat tickles and prods him. He wants to be brave, to say what’s on his mind, to live with one less regret.

He sees _red_ , daring, warm, comforting _red._ In Michael’s jacket. In the daisy. In his own cheeks. In the petals that bloom in his stomach. _Red,_ so tempting that he knows he has to do something.

So, Jeremy takes a deep breath, feeling brave and _red_ and entirely out of season.

“You can always call. I-I mean, if you have an idea or a special request of your own.”

That _something (_ that _red, red something)_ in his stomach rewards him with a breath of air in his lungs and a giddy tingle in his limbs. Michael rewards him with the widest smile he’s seen yet and a fumbling attempt to dig through his pockets once more for something.

Finally, Michael holds out his cell phone, new contact information pulled up on the screen.

Jeremy offers a business card, the contact number for _Heere Family Flowers_ printed in bold.

They both speak at once.

“You can just put your number in—“

“This is our card, you can—“

And they both clamp their mouths shut.

Jeremy goes pink again. Michael follows in suit. He retreats his hand back into his pocket at light speed, and it’s like the phone was never there in the first place.

“Oh,” Michael tries to laugh off his mistake, but his voice cracks in the slightest, “You—you meant call the store…”

The awkward tension is palpable. Jeremy’s muscles clench, and he wants to cough up the metaphorical petals in his throat, but he forces the sensation back down. He can fix this.

“Yeah, but,” he scrambles to find a pen, ducking under the counter when there’s none to be found on the countertop. He spots a blue gel pen under his stool, bumps his head on the underside of the counter when he stands back up, and continues mission despite Michael’s noise of confusion and worry.

The business card is packed with text on the front, but the back is blank, and that’s where Jeremy scribbles his name, number, and a tiny doodle of Yoshi. It’s messier than he would like, but it’s legible. He’s just amazed that his shaky hand was even able to hold a pen correctly.

“Here.” He feels a bit breathless as he holds out the business card between obviously shaking fingers. Michael studies the small card, before slowly reaching out and taking it gently from Jeremy’s grasp. Jeremy breathes out a sigh of relief. “You can call me too.” he says, then quickly tacks on, “If-If you have any ideas!”

Michael, looking surprised himself, smiles down at the card. Then, as he pockets the note, grins at Jeremy as well. “I’ll definitely give you a call! Thanks for everything!”

He slips a folded five-dollar bill in the empty tip jar sitting on the edge of the counter before he starts to leave. Jeremy watches him go, heart still thumping. Still feeling _red red red._  

“I’ll see you around, Jeremy!” Michael calls as he steps out the door, waving. Jeremy mirrors the gesture. Then Michael is gone.

And the sun follows after.

 

**Author's Note:**

> whoops, haven't written anything in a hot minute, but here we are
> 
> i was listening to "The Florist" by Pekoe (which, btw, amazing song by an amazing artist like check out her other stuff too) when inspiration for this struck. if i was going to make this a full-length fic, i would take a different approach as far as writing style goes, and probably a different direction story-wise. but for now, i think i'm okay with the whole love-at-first-sight, jeremy-waxes-poetic aesthetic that's going on here. thanks so much for reading!
> 
> \- also, i'm [verodots](https://verodots.tumblr.com) on tumblr, so you can find me there if you want to talk or scream about be more chill and the boyfs with me!!


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